


Slaughter of the Innocents

by beautifullyheeled, notthewhizkid (orphan_account)



Category: Hunger Games - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Big Brother, Blood, Character Death, Fahrenheit 451, Government Corruption, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Consensual Violence, One-Sided Attraction, Original Character Death(s), Past Violence, Rebellion, possible gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/notthewhizkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years ago, Sherlock had spent two full weeks glued to his television set, watching and hoping against all evidence for John Watson to come home alive.</p><p>This year, Sherlock just hoped John didn't have to do the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Two years ago, Sherlock had spent two full weeks glued to his television set, watching and hoping against all evidence for John Watson to come home alive. The blond was a skilled fighter, surely, and he was brilliant at medical work, so he was able to help himself out of some terrible situations, but the others - especially the Careers - were not going to give him an easy time. Somehow, though, John had made it, coming back as the Victor of his Game, greeted by all in his hometown with joy and relief, none more so than Sherlock himself. Even though he was only two years younger than John, still able to be reaped, it was good to know that Sherlock's one and only friend was not only alive and well but safe from any further games, even though he'd be sitting in on them as a trainer. 

This year, though, Sherlock Holmes was as old as he could be to still get reaped. As with every year, the brunet waited in the crowd of boys from his district, half-listening to the name of the girl going to the Capitol for the Hunger Games. Irene Adler, a girl from his own age group, entered into the drawing seven times, just as much as Sherlock himself. It was a pity, knowing the girl who would be sent to what was likely inevitable death, but he could not dwell on that. Not now. Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts when the male tribute was called, his own name ringing through the town square, hundreds of eyes suddenly on him. It felt... surreal, Sherlock decided, his feet moving him forward without his explicit command, and even though he knew John would be on the stage, he couldn't bring himself to look up and see the man. He knew how it felt to watch his best friend essentially get signed up for death, and he didn't want to see John realize he'd be coaching Sherlock on how best to kill all the other tributes to avoid dying on his own - which was a 23:1 chance. The odds most certainly were not in Sherlock's favor.

John stood waiting for the Reaping, just as he had his entire life. This time though, he prayed to whatever he could that his only surviving friend, Sherlock Holmes, would not be chosen. That his elder brother, Mycroft, had seen to it. They’d become close before he himself was Reaped two years previous. Now, he knew Sherlock had a very decent chance at being chosen. No one had volunteered in four years. They had begun to quietly take a stance against the Games. Peaceful protest in lieu of outright rebellion. 

Then John was chosen. He came home a Victor, but his life had never been the same. He’d kept Sherlock unaware of the darker side of winning, but his older brother Mycroft was well aware as he’d been to parties where Victors were bought for the hour, the night, the week. Kept pets for the Aristocracy. It was the silent payment for their lives. No one ever left the Games. Their lives were forfeit weather their bodies continued to live on or not. 

Sherlock was entered seven times, it being his eighteenth year. 

Anderson stood, brightly dressed in a shocking shade of lavender, his signature colour. His had swishing the bowl as he finally plucked the paper from the Reaping Ball prattling on as if this were the most marvelous thing to happen to their district. How proud the Capitol was for having District 3 as a District that Volunteered and how much they had missed that in these most recent Games. As far as John was concerned, he wished Anderson would ‘accidentally’ trip off of the dias and die from the fall. Well, maybe be permanently damaged. 

“Irene Adler!” Anderson’s voice pulled him from the revere as the female tribute was announced. John’s eyes scanned the older group of tributes and locked on the dark-haired lithe form of the young woman who was called. She stood tall and straight, confidence following her every step. Every boy in Sherlock’s age group visibly reacted in some way. There would be a volunteer then perhaps. Someone who believed he was in love and who would die for it. Would prove himself to her and bleed for her. 

But none came.

John swallowed hard as Anderson’s hand swished the male tributes names. He kept breathing evenly, refused to show any emotion over any of this as the President, the entire Capitol was watching. Then it happened. 

“Sherlock Holmes!” It struck John immediately, but he could do nothing. He would be his Mentor and try to teach him anything he could that he hadn’t thought of previously because why would Sherlock ever be chosen. Mycroft was supposed to make sure he wasn’t. There was supposed to be such a small percentage chance, and yet it had happened.

Sherlock had never considered getting Reaped. Of course he’d had nightmares about what would happen if he had, and they’d only gotten worse when John had been chosen, but never did he really sit down and think about the horror he would feel if he had to climb those concrete stairs up to the dais in front of their district’s government building. There was no way to describe how cold Sherlock’s blood had gone, but he was certain everyone around him - parting to make room for him to come forward - could hear his heart beating in his chest. Sherlock kept his face as stoic as ever, knowing that the Capital was watching, that President Moriarty was watching, and he didn’t want to give them any reason to believe that he or District 3 was weak, not when John and Irene were doing so well to keep that up, the other citizens of the district keeping to it, too.

Though his legs felt like they would give out at any moment, Sherlock forced himself up the stairs, standing beside a lavender-clad Anderson, chin tilted up as he tried not to sneer at the two cameras he could see, even though he knew that there were more. The entire situation was sickening, causing Sherlock’s stomach to lurch, but he tuned out, entering his mind palace for a moment so he would miss Anderson’s usual drivel. 

The mind palace was a place of quiet organization, but Sherlock quickly upset that, knowing he only had a few minutes to think, and he had to do so quickly. How would he stay alive? How would he get through the Games? John, of course. John would help. But what of Irene? Would he have to murder her?

Neither of them were made to fight. Not fist-to-fist, anyway. Irene and Sherlock were clever, very clever, and their weapons would be their minds. The younger Holmes had been taught to bowhunt by his brother, knowing that in some years the winter would be cold enough that he’d have to provide for Mummy and Father now that Mycroft was gone, but it wasn’t as though he was phenomenal at that. It wouldn’t save his life, but it could be useful to some degree if he could get his hands on a bow in the Games. Other than that, Sherlock would need to use his surroundings and situations to keep himself breathing, or else he had no chance.

By the time Sherlock withdrew from his thoughts, he realized Anderson had finished and Irene had been looking his way. She seemed completely put together, the picture of elegance and composure, and he knew they looked like a pair. Slowly, almost as though Irene thought Sherlock would dart back, the woman took his hand, indicating to the Capitol that they were already an alliance of sorts, even if they’d be fighting later on. That was really all they could do at the moment, show that they were together. The quiet defiance of District 3 against the Capitol was nothing to gasp over, but at least the sight of two tributes showing that they were not entering this without one another would not go unnoticed. 

Next came the goodbyes. Sherlock’s brother was in the Capitol still, probably watching this all happen right now, and he highly doubted that his parents would come to see him. They were older and frail, watching the Reaping on their telly, so Sherlock prepared for a long wait alone in a room. John could come to see him, should the Peacekeepers permit it, but Sherlock knew he’d be with the man on the train soon enough. They’d need to plan, to make sure there was a way Sherlock could come home alive. For now, though, Sherlock allowed himself to be separated from Irene, the two of them led by a harsh grip on the shoulder into the building behind them, placed in two different rooms and told to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

John watched as they led Sherlock and Irene, the feeling of hopelessness galvanized him into action. He waved once as he was dismissed John by Anderson from the dais then went straight to the rooms they had been put in. It looked as if Irene had a visitor, so John went to Sherlock. They had more leeway as he was now his mentor, but he had to be careful to not spend the entire time in with him as to show a favorite. 

Sherlock felt trapped like an animal, which he supposed he was now. He was the Capital’s entertainment, for sure. He was going to (probably) be slaughtered like livestock in just a couple of weeks, and that was all he could think about now. At least he didn’t have any younger siblings or family that relied on him to help keep everyone fed and well-off in the winter. Sherlock was the last in his family, the baby, and he was beginning to imagine all the ways he would die. Would it be in the bloodbath, where nearly a third of tributes every year died (though there were years where more were killed, where the games were nearly over after just a few minutes), or would it be later, after days of hiding, trying to keep himself away from those hunting him? 

He didn’t have time to consider it, though, when John came in. Sherlock hadn’t imagined he could feel that much relief upon seeing a familiar face, but the warmth that spread through every nerve in his body was almost overwhelming. “John,” Sherlock breathed, standing and coming close to his friend, still stoic, though it could be argued that a small sign of fear could be seen if looked for. “Don’t….” Sherlock had to pause, collecting himself for a second. “Don’t let yourself be affected by this. You have to keep your appearance up, even if you have to watch me die on the screen.” Sherlock looked firm, standing before John, meeting his gaze. “I will endeavor not to die, but it’s the most likely consequence of this. Do not let yourself be seen as weak, not when the Capitol is watching.”

John stood, just breathing a few feet from Sherlock. His best friend. He cocked his head slightly down resting his chin in his fingers as he schooled his expression before once again looking up to meet those quicksilver eyes with resolution. 

“You’re going to live, Sherlock. You are smart, fast, lithe... you know how to swim and I’ve taught you to climb already. You know some of the weaknesses of the tech already that will be going in. Irene, I don’t know much, but she’ll draw sponsors. Might do to work together in the beginning. You’ll need allies even though they can become a liability, and quickly.” 

Gods, did John know that. His heart became heavy with memory as he continued to take in the sight of his friend. Alone. He couldn’t stand it any longer and moved to him and embraced him as a brother, then pulled him closer. 

“I remember this. The feeling. It’s alright to feel for now.” He pushed Sherlock back so he could memorise his face as he was now. Before it all changed. “Soon, it will not help any of us I agree. We must not be seen as weak. We must be seen as standing together.”

He moved away then, pushed himself to move from the magnetism of his polar opposite, his hand pressed a long line from his throat to his waist as he released a hard sigh. “We are all too young. This is too high a price.” He stopped then and pivoted back towards Sherlock. “I’m going to go begin negotiations with Irene. The holding of your hand was a very quiet political move. Maybe she feels as we do. Stay calm, stay collected. I’ll see you on the train.”

With that John took a single look back and walked through the door sealing Sherlock back to his thoughts and his fate.

Irene Adler. John had not met her, so not a military Baskerville child. Possibly medical, cosmetic... but she seemed very well possesed, not vapid. Not tested on then. She was small of stature, but her eyes were alight. Brilliant. Maybe a ‘Jinu; someone who knew the cost of life, but was benevolent and cunning. Maybe she knew Beetee. He would have been one of her teachers if that were the case. He was always glad he had been mentored by him during his Games. Beetee had been closed about his own experiences, but had told John that Tech always had a weakness. And he had been correct. 

He pushed open the door to his tribute, a somber smile on his face. 

Irene knew how to keep herself together, always calm in the face of whatever dangers she happened to face. This, though, was different. She was very aware that there was a chance of her being chosen for the Games, but never did she entertain the notion of actually having to go. Now with her two younger siblings, a ten-year-old boy named Tristan and a seven-year-old girl named Anna, both already scared that their big sister would be chosen, Irene didn’t know what she’d do for them. There was such a small chance she’d be coming home, but she would definitely fight to the end. 

Their tears had been the worse, though. Little Anna tried desperately to keep them hidden, but by the end she was clinging to Irene, and it was all the woman could do not to cry in return. Instead, she just pulled her brother and sister close, kissing their hair and telling them to be strong, to go back and find Mummy, to stay safe and definitely do not watch the Hunger Games this year, even though she knew they would. Irene didn’t want her siblings privy to what would happen to her. She wanted them to remember her as she was.

They’d gone by the time John came in, though. Irene had somehow pushed everything down, calming herself as she paced about the room, her hands held together behind her back, though she stopped and stared at the door when she heard it open. “Oh,” she breathed, continuing her pacing, not stopping to look at the man who would train her, “I had thought you were a Peacekeeper. I’d thought you were here to drag me to the train.” No, she thought almost bitterly. That would come soon enough.

“So, why are you here?” Irene asked, standing still, moving her arms to rest on her thin hips, her stance imposing even for her tiny figure. “I know you’re close to Sherlock. I don’t expect you to try and keep me alive. I can’t expect that from you, really.” She rolled her eyes, turning away from John, her hands wrapping around her body a bit, as though trying to comfort herself. “I will fight on my own. Just promise me that if he…” Irene tried to find a lighter word, but there was nothing for this. “If he _dies_ , just say you’ll help me then. That’s all I want.”

“Actually, I had the beginning of an idea.” John began after he shut the door. “Yes, Sherlock and I are friends, but we are all bound by our District as well. I am your mentor and I will help, in any way that I can. I thought the two of you might strike an alliance. He feels that it should be one of the two of you that should come home. To show solidarity in the face of the Games. Wouldn’t it be better for one of you to die to the other then a stranger?”

He spoke plainly, every word almost true. He knew Sherlock would agree to some of it, but he might resist others. Irene though, she had just as keen a mind and the same sharp edges it seemed. Bookends. This would be hell on him, but if it could mean Sherlock surviving, he’d endure almost anything.

“I’m certain, given a particular spin, that I could not only get you, personal sponsors, but couple sponsors as well.” He looked at her, his eyes spoke what he dared not to if the room were compromised. In truth it was his heart. His friend would have to rely on Irene. Hope that they played their own game within a game well enough to fool the masses. “Would you be up to this? Playing to the sympathies of others so you both survive long enough to outlast all the others?” 

He paced himself, took a steadying breath and walked towards Irene, giving her a similar brotherly embrace as he had just moments ago for Sherlock. “Do not forget, I am a Victor. I will mentor you both. Equally. For as long as you both allow. We will stand unaffected by strife on this team. They will love you for it.”

Irene had turned back to look at John whenever the man had started speaking, but it was obvious she was far more skeptical of the offer than anything else. Why shouldn’t she be? Everyone from now on could be either trying to keep her alive - to a point - or trying to kill her, and they would all be virtually indistinguishable from each other. This was John, though, whose allegiance was to Sherlock first in these Games, even if he said otherwise, and that did not bode well for Irene, but then again, John was a good sort, the kind of man who would try to genuinely save anyone who needed him. That much was obvious from the sort of person he was in his own Games, when he patched up plenty, giving them mercy when he didn’t have to.

“Fine,” Irene said finally, letting herself relax slightly in John’s embrace, her own arms coming around to curl on the man’s backside, holding him close for just a moment before she pulled back, meeting John’s gaze, every part of her firm as she continued speaking. “I accept. Mold us into the partners you know the Capitol will love. I am sure Sherlock and I can fake anything you would like. We’re quite the actors.”

A knock on the door caught Irene’s attention, and she knew it meant she only had another minute or so until she would be dragged to the train, forced on, as though she were expected to bolt otherwise. “I want to live; make no mistake of that, John,” Irene stated, looking tall. “I will work with him until the end, should he give me no reason to believe any different, but once we are the last ones in the Arena, I will give everything I have to be the one to come back alive.”

The rapping on the door came once more, and Irene brushed past John to meet the Peacekeepers on her own terms, stopping only for a second to look back at John. “I am sorry for this. I know you are still affected by your own victory, and I know you performed some rather unsavory acts to come back here, but now it’s us. Sherlock is your priority, I realise, but I am not going to give myself up for him.” With that, Irene tilted her chin up and opened the door, meeting the Peacekeepers that would bring her to the train.


	3. Chapter 3

The Capitol spared no expense to get the children they were going to murder to the Games, it seemed.

Sherlock had been grabbed rather forcefully from his room and taken to the train, where he had been left alone for only a moment before Anderson came in, sitting with him and waiting for the ride to go. Everything was neat and orderly, flower on the side tables and several different compartments easily seen from where Sherlock sat, at the back of the train, seeing the sparse greenery of his home city just outside. It was elegant and modern, and over the top. It was very obvious that this train had been sent by the Capitol.

Irene came in a moment later, walking on her own, though two Peacekeepers flanked her on either side, as though they saw that she was going straight to the train but needed to perform their duties and keep her doing just that. Once she was on the train, her eyes met Sherlock’s for the first time since the Reaping, and it was obvious that they were thinking the same, that they were truly too young for this sort of thing, that there was nothing that would justify this high a price from them. 

The woman moved to go and take a seat two cushions from Sherlock, not wanting to sit directly beside him. There was obvious tension in the room, neither moving to say anything, Anderson not saying anything either, everyone sitting quietly. It was obvious when John got on the train as well, the transport starting to move with a jolt and a whir, everything silent as they began their march towards death.

“Well you two, might as well stop pretending.” John started out, every word bitter in his mouth even as he refused to show it. “You have my confidence. Anderson will be quite silent on the matter as well, won’t you, Sylvia?”

“John, manners. I never gossip, ever.” Anderson’s shocked face at the usage of his first name was quickly refined to one of disdain. His lips lifted at the corners. “These are my Tributes, and my God are you two just gorgeous. Now, what is this about pretending?” He looked to his hands, fluttering the lavender manicured digits in a flourish. “I am here to show you the best of times and groom you for the Capitol. Oh how you two will love it! You will have so many sponsors!”

“Even you must not be that blind,” John paced a moment then headed toward the bar as he spoke careful to make his voice even. “They are together, Sylvia. As Mary and I were... you do remember that don’t you?”

“Of course he remembers that,” Sherlock snarked, and even though he wasn’t sure what precisely John had in mind, he moved closer to Irene, sitting as close to her as was respectable. “His tense posture, slouched left shoulder, and depressed eyebrows should tell you that. He remembers, but because he knew Mary, he’s trying not to.”

Irene swatted Sherlock’s leg, casually and yet as though she had done it many times, the sign one that the two of them were close, despite the fact that they were not. “What Sherlock means is,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “Anderson remembers. That’s all.” She felt terribly for John, knowing that he and Mary had been a rather close pair, though she wasn’t sure if they’d been romantically linked outside of the Games or if they were a ruse like she and Sherlock were. “But, fine. We’ll stop pretending.” She scooted slightly closer to Sherlock, her hand resting on his knee, comfortable where she was. “Is this your way of saying you wish us to play this up more for the Capitol?” It was obvious that they were an aesthetically pleasing couple, and they could fake everything. “I’m sure the Capitol would love to watch another tragic romance. They do love when that happens, though very few pairs can ever truly convince them of it.” Irene knew they could. She and Sherlock could perform their parts, if it helped one of them come home.

“But that is the beauty of it, “ John spoke his back to them as he pulled a bottle of champagne. “You two will be out from the second we enter the Capitol, not as tragic as Mary and I. It’s a hard thing to live with, your love perishing without a chance to be saved. If we had been more forthcoming, she might have possibly lived and I would have gladly taken her place on the killing fields.”

John popped the cork and poured glasses before turning to them with a grim smile. “Felicitations to you both.”

One of the staff came and handed out the glasses to the others as John sat in the high back chair closest to the table and set the bottle down. He closed his eyes against the burn of long unshed tears. No, those would come tonight. In his locked cabin. Now, there was no time for weakness. No time for pledges or the bonds of friendship. Only one would be coming home. Everyone knew it. 

“Sherlock, Irene.” He smiled softly at them, a hint of knowing benevolence in his words. “After dinner you two may retire if you wish. There will be little time together once we reach the Capitol. I would use this time for one another.” 

With that John stood, glass forgotten. Instead, he reached for the bottle almost as an afterthought then found his way out towards his carriage. 

Once left alone by John, Sherlock and Irene stayed close, knowing that Anderson would have his eyes on the two of them. “Drink,” Irene quietly urged Sherlock, to which the man complied. They would have to get used to this quiet nagging if they were to convince the Capitol of their love. The alcohol was strong, the champagne almost far too bubbly for Sherlock’s taste, but he drank it anyway, knowing that he needed something to soften the emotion trying to edge its way up to his throat. 

“Come, Irene,” Sherlock murmured, glancing at Anderson quickly before standing and helping Irene up, taking her hand with his free one. “Let’s retire. We will report to you tomorrow morning, Sylvia,” Sherlock added with a smirk, taking his glass and walking past the escort, grabbing another bottle of champagne as he walked out. 

The compartments that were meant for individual use were spacious at the very least, ornate and comfortable, and Sherlock knew he could keep Irene in here with him. They were walking on eggshells around each other, but tonight would hopefully fix that, at least until the Games began. “Choose your side of the bed, my _sweetheart_ ,” Sherlock said to Irene, setting the champagne on a table in the room, draining his glass before taking the right side of the bed, the left taken by the woman in the room. “I imagine it would do well to stay in here tonight, with me. Anderson will be suspicious of us otherwise.”

Irene just nodded, toeing off her shoes, pulling her feet onto the bed and sitting sideways, elegant in her dress still but keeping her body posture professional and composed. “I understand,” she answered, nodding, taking a sip of her own glass, finding it to be perfect for her own tastes. “I am also glad you went along with John’s words. It seemed obvious that he hadn’t said anything to you about it for a second, but then you went along with it, and you managed.” She gave a weak smile, the corners of her thin lips curling just a bit. “We do make rather the attractive pair. The Capitol will love us.”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, crossing his legs on the bed after his own shoes came off. “I suppose.” The room was quiet for a moment as they both finished their glasses, neither speaking or moving to get the remainder of the champagne in the bottle. The tension was broken soon enough as Sherlock looked at Irene, his glass set to the side as his hands moved to undo his shirt buttons halfway, the man lying on the bed, claiming a pillow for himself. “Make yourself comfortable. Please. I suppose we should get used to lying together like this, as well.” Irene only nodded again, her face saying that she was doing this for a purpose, setting her own flute glass aside and lying by Sherlock, facing him, her every muscle tense.

Though the purpose of coming into the room together was to pad their ruse and get to know each other better, neither said a word, but after several minutes, Irene just sighed, letting her body loose some tension. “May the odds be in our favor,” she said, closing her eyes, Sherlock doing the same as they both tried to sleep, somehow drifting off moments later, even if they both knew it would be a very rough night, especially when they’d be in the Capitol by morning.


	4. Chapter 4

John drank from the bottle, a hard huff of a chuckle in his throat. Why he was doing this to them, to himself? He was an idiot. And to drive home the point he’d brought up Mary. Dear, sweet Mary who never should have been a tribute. He was terrified when she was chosen from the Reaping Ball. She was fourteen, would have been fifteen the following month. Hair like the sun on a summer day. He missed her so much. Now, just when he had it all figured out where he was with his feelings for Sherlock, just when he was going to tell him, this.

Maybe Irene and Sherlock would find common ground, but one or both could be dead in a matter of a week. Would caring ever be an advantage? It was an internal drive that he had, to heal. To mend. The island they had been on had been brutal, there had been many injuries. Many times he had helped because he could. Then they went after Mary. 

He rotated his shoulder, the memory still vivid. 

Then the murderous bastard had set on John. After he had healed him not a day previous, he could have used those supplies to help her. At least ease her somewhat. Himself. After the pike had pierced him he really had thought he was dead. The fact that he managed to bludgeon the boy then... well at least he had given him a swift death. How was he supposed to ever live after that. He wasn't grateful for making it back. His sister was free from the Reaping the year previous, but had lost her best friend, Clara. She’d begun to offer herself for tests, worn herself thin. He had finally lost touch with her until she showed up the day after his games in the Victor’s square demanding to live with him.

She was a wraith. Not even a person anymore because of Baskerville. 

Now Sherlock.

Everyone he cared for, everyone he loved was being stripped from him. Why? To fuel some ideal that the people were wrong for rebelling against the Capitol? The city, people within had no idea of what it was like. He didn’t either. Just his own district. He couldn’t even being in one of the outer ones like District 12. At least in his they had plenty for the most part. They didn’t starve because they were needed to keep entertainment, cosmetic, medical, and military always new. Better. Technology though, it always had a flaw. A glitch. 

John knew his... his only flaw was evident after his Games. Compassion. 

He loved Mary. Wanted to give her a life, wanted their children to grow. Maybe find a way to escape into the Wilderness. He cared for the other children who had Volunteered or been Reaped. One was just old enough, small and frail. Terrified. He’d just waited to die swiftly the day of the Bloodbath. John had never cried so hard as he had that night when Mary and they clung to one another. The two of them knew their time had already passed, that they would only have seconds. Moments. Independent parts of time until one or both of them were extinguished. 

Now this. 

His best friend. They’d become mostly inseparable, especially over the past few months. John had noticed his feelings only as of late though. Didn’t even think himself capable, honestly. Sherlock breathed life and excitement into him again. The world became vivid to him. The way he could look at you and know in a second what you had been doing, who you were as a person. It was amazing. It also was hard on Sherlock; John had seen it personally. He could not stand to be near liars. People who were not true to themselves. 

All it had gotten his friend was trouble most of his life between that and his brilliant mind John was honestly surprised that the President hadn’t had him killed. Or even brought to him as one of his ‘Assistants’. Now there was a terrifying thought. How was he supposed to mentor them? How could he help give them an edge more then the “couple” angle they would work. Sherlock really was a wonder when it came to figuring things. How could that be incorporated... what were Irene’s talents? He’d have to meet with them as soon as they disembarked and headed to the Tower where their floor awaited them.

John swallowed down the champagne, finishing the bottle. The alcohol soothing his nerves only enough that he would be able to fall asleep. He knew he’d still have terrors. Maybe he’d sleep soundly enough to not cry out at least. If he was extremely lucky, maybe he’d see Mary instead.


	5. Chapter 5

When morning came, neither Sherlock nor Irene felt particularly rested. They had fallen asleep on separate sides of the bed, but by morning they were curled close, Irene tucked into Sherlock's longer body, the two of them clinging together. Neither teenager said a word as they roused, hearing voices outside in the train, but it was obvious the tension between them wouldn't be lifting just yet. The entire situation was madness, but they had no choice but to get ready for the day.

The train was still, stopped and parked. It must have come to the Capitol sometime recently, as neither tribute had been woken or dragged outside yet. Sherlock and Irene cleaned up a bit, changing their clothes and fixing their bed-mussed hair. They exchanged a look filled with frightening uncertainty, but with a blink of their eyes, it was gone. No emotion could be shown, not when they were going to leave the train, meet their stylists, and be in chariots by tonight for the entire nation to see. 

Sherlock started out first, leading the way to the open gathering area John and Anderson had been in yesterday. Peacekeepers were there instead, causing Sherlock to pause, keeping Irene behind him, though he took her hand, knowing he couldn't spare having anyone think he and Irene were not together. This would be the cover that could save them, and failure could not be afforded. "We're ready to go, when our escort and mentor are," Sherlock stated, looking the Peacekeepers in the eye, not backing down. It obviously unnerved them, but a snap of their leader's fingers caused them to surge forward, separating Irene and Sherlock by force, holding each by their upper arms. Sherlock jerked and tried to resist for a moment, but Irene kept still, both of them knowing that they wouldn't get out of the harsh grip. 

"We're escorting you today," one Peacekeeper said, "and if your mentor and escort can catch up, they're welcome as well." The man's voice was low and gruff, sending a shiver down Sherlock's spine at how neutral and yet violent he sounded, as though he did not care at all that he was handling two kids, giving them over to the people that would prime him to be killed. "Come on," the Peacekeeper growled, tugging Sherlock forward a few steps, Irene walking behind, pulling them off the train and towards a nearby building, where the stylists would be. Maybe John or Anderson would hurry up and come with them, Sherlock thought, looking over his shoulder at Irene before he was forced to look ahead again. He very much didn't like the feeling of him and Irene being alone with the people working for the Games.

The Peacekeepers pulled Sherlock and Irene into a building just beside the train station, forcing the two teenagers inside, letting go of them as soon as the door was closed behind them. The hall they found themselves in was dimly lit, and only one door was open, with muffled noises coming from it. The Peacekeepers nudged Sherlock forward, causing him to stumble a bit, and he started walking, taking Irene's hand as he did. She followed behind him, her grip tightening fractionally as they entered the open room. 

Bright, gaudy colors coated the room, screaming that this was no longer their home in District 3, but it was the Capitol. Mirrors lined one wall, chairs and tables lined with many jars of accessories on them just to the side. It was obvious to Sherlock that this was where he and Irene would be prepped for their chariot ride tonight, and it would probably be where they would get ready for their television interviews after that. Sherlock just stepped forward, pulling Irene along, not wanting to separate from the one person he knew from home.

“Oh,” a woman said, coming into the room, her heels clicking against the marble floors, “look at you two. Gorgeous ones, you are. This will be fun, making you look like champions.” Irene made herself stand a little taller, and Sherlock stood closer to her, neither of them letting go of each other. “You’re the two tributes, aren’t you?” There was hardly a pause before the woman waved her hand, rolling her eyes. “Of course you are. Brought in by Peacekeepers, looking as frightened as you are, there’s no one else you could be.” She looked over both of the teenagers thoroughly, walking around them, not shy at all about taking in all the details of their persons. “I’m Anthea, by the way,” she finally offered, coming to a stop in front of them, “your stylist for the Games. I have an assistant around here, somewhere, but I believe she’s getting a few more supplies for me to get started. Her name is Mrs. Hudson, and I’m sure you’ll like her well enough.” 

Anthea turned her back and moved to the wall of mirrors, waving the two tributes forward, motioning for them to sit. “And for god’s sake,” she said, annoyance in her voice, “let go of each other. I can’t very well make you two look regal and unbeatable like I’m supposed to if you’re clinging to each other.”

It took a moment, but Sherlock let go of Irene’s hand, watching as she walked over to Anthea, standing straight and tall, intimidating in her own right. “We’re going to have to trust you to make us look imposing, like someone the Districts can see themselves rooting for and someone the other tributes will want as an ally. Can you do that?”

Anthea just gave a curt laugh, quirking an eyebrow before moving to put her hand at the small of Irene’s back, guiding her to the first chair, turning her to face the mirror, her hands beginning to undo Irene’s hairstyle and let it hang freely. “Of course I can,” she stated, smirking, allowing herself to turn into her working mode, and Sherlock could clearly see the ideas flowing over her face. If anyone could make them look like an option for the Games, it seemed that Anthea could, he thought as he watched Irene start to transform into whatever the stylist was making her into.


	6. Chapter 6

John hated this part, the separation. He knew they were being brought down to their base levels, then slowly being turned into works of art. At least they had Anthea. She was very good at her niche, and would be pleased her tributes were already striking to begin with. Finally he had been able to get to the viewing area and saw quite a sight. They had Irene and Sherlock laid out on tables working on them, their bodies being rinsed smooth so that not even a hair was left except what Anthea deemed necessary. They looked like porcelain creations more than human children. Synthetic. Maybe that was the whole point.

“Yours are even holding hands through this?” The voice came from behind him. He recognised it and smiled to himself as he continued to watch. “Who are they that you are so concerned?”

“Greg, you are just as concerned for yours, and you know it.” John sighed turning and giving the older Victor a warm hug in greeting. “Yes, very much a sign of solidarity. They love each other very much... it’s hard.” The words held the ring of truth as they were, but not for the reasons that John figured Greg would suspect. “How are your Tributes handling everything?” 

Greg just shrugged. “I know I’m concerned,” he said, clapping John on the back in the hug before pulling back and standing beside him, watching the two tributes from 3 get made over. Already grey-haired and tanner than John, Greg was a man used to being outside, always on the go, trying to help his district. From 4, Greg’s home was known for fishing, and though he didn’t do that as often anymore himself, because he was a Victor, he had quite a lot of skill left, and it was well known that the use of such talent was how he won his Games eight years ago. “Mine aren’t as solid as yours seem to be, not together. I’ve got a mouse of a girl - sweet thing, named Molly. I’ve known her for ages, probably since she was about four. Our families are close. I was nearly about to beg for someone to come and volunteer for her, but I knew it wouldn’t happen. We’re generally a Career state, you know, but our home is just as ready for some sort of change as yours is, and no one has been Volunteering.” He clenched his fists at his sides, still looking at John’s tributes, not directly at his friend. “She’s not made to fight.”

Both men knew the implications of that statement, but neither said a word.

With a small sigh, Greg continued. “Other one’s an older boy named Petr. He’s strong. Perfect candidate to be a Victor.” Greg shrugged. “He’s got skill with a spear. I’ve seen him hunting, out on the waters, and even I’m impressed. The kid might make it.” Winning, though, was always a bittersweet thing. Even if one of your tributes won, the other had died, and so had twenty-two other children. They really were just kids, the lot of them. “Petr is trying to teach Molly a bit of self-defense. It’s heartwarming enough, considering…” He hesitated, glancing over to John. “Well, in a week or so, the self-defense could be used back against himself.”

“It very well could.” John agreed, more out of the need to say something positive than any other reason. “Maybe my two could help her as well.” John knew that this girl, Molly, might not make it through the bloodbath, but it might be good if Sherlock and Irene teamed with Petr. Befriend one, the other might choose the alliance as well. John stood silent a moment, his eyes on Sherlock. He felt Greg’s appraising glances and finally looked at the man knowing already what he would see. They both had loved ones at stake. They both would do anything to see them through this circus. John made his mind up and offered the branch. “I’ll speak to them tonight after we are back in our suites if you wish.”

He finally turned completely away from the glass to face Greg. John allowed himself to go ashen in front of him. It was only for a moment, but it was enough. “I’ve known him for two years, Sherlock. He’s my best friend, the only one I can stand to be around or to touch me.” The blue of his eyes went dark as he shuddered with anger. “Only friends, most likely never anything else... if he wins, Greg, can you imagine what will happen to one of mine? Especially after having to lose the one they love? Do you ever... does it get any easier? Hasn’t for me. Then the solicitations... thank the Gods I’ve been able to put them off since the first year claiming grievous mourning... but being in the Capitol it brings it all back. They’ll want... while ours are out there murdering one another. How do you deny them? Do you? What if it means the ability to get gifts from sponsors?” 

Greg just turned his face away, shaking his head. “I always do what I can to secure what my tributes need,” he said, voice low but firm. “I give myself for them. I know it’s not the best thing for myself, but I don’t matter anymore. What matters is their survival.” And neither of them had been very good at securing that, really. Having been a Victor of the Games ten years ago when he was sixteen, Greg had trained twenty different tributes from his home now, and he’d watched all of them get slaughtered at the hands of the others in the Arena. He did anything he could each year to help his tributes get farther in the Hunger Games, but nothing ever seemed to save them. “I don’t deny anything, not when it can help. I don’t know how you do.” 

The older Victor looked down over Sherlock and Irene, seeing them being forced into shimmering clothing, Sherlock’s in black and Irene’s, white. “If that’s not going to catch the eye, I don’t know what will,” Greg said with a bitter laugh. “And knowing Anthea, she’ll have something mad in those costumes.” Greg turned away from the glass, moving to the doorway, about to leave the room. “I bet they’ve got mine covered in fishnets and scales and all of that again. They do know there’s more to 4 than just fishing, right?” He rolled his eyes, opening the door, tone sombering a bit. “May the odds be in your team’s favor this year, John. Good luck.” With one last glance at his friend, Greg left the room, door closing with a slam behind him.


End file.
